


Some Strange Country

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:31:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6433708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She first saw him crouched down in the display window, dressing a mannequin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in 1962, for reasons that will become clear later. I'm not sure if Rachel's office was in the same building as the store or not, but for the purposes of this story it is.

 

 

 

She first saw him crouched down in the display window, dressing a mannequin. He was pinning up the hem on a dress that was too long, his hands up under the skirt and a stick-pin clenched between his teeth. The male mannequin next to him was stripped and armless. One of the dismembered limbs rolled across the floor when he bumped into it. He was wearing a brown wool jacket with patches on the elbows, an odd fit with the blue jeans and workboots he had on. But he looked young so maybe that was an attempt to appear more professional. Whatever he was doing with the background involved a lot of black gauze.

He noticed her watching. She hadn’t meant to stare; primarily she was wondering where their usual window dresser was. There was an awkward minute where their eyes met and neither of them moved. Then he picked up the nearest arm and waved at her.

She raised her eyebrows at him, but she _did_ smile. It was hard not to.

He did too, and put the arm back down with a self-deprecating shrug. His face was the kind that was almost uncomfortably easy to read, like stumbling upon a stranger's diary. Something about it caught her attention. She looked away, and then back. It was his eyes, she thought. They were large and vivid, quite striking. Modigliani might have sketched him.

He’d gone rosy in the cheeks, and here she was staring again. Lucky for both of them her CFO came up beside her on the sidewalk and tapped her on the shoulder. He seemed awfully amused but wisely said nothing. They went inside the store quickly, heads bent together, talking quarterly numbers. Rachel felt caught out for no reason at all. As though she had been discovered with her hand in the cookie jar.

 

Still, she came out again later. To have a cigarette and some fresh air, yes, but also to look at the display. It was finished and the window dresser was gone. She had wondered if all that black wasn’t a bit funereal, but now she realized she had misinterpreted it; the fabric wasn’t drapery at all, but a night sky stretched behind the mannequins. It was touched with dark purple or blue here and there for depth, and there were clusters of large glittering beads connected with white thread dotted across it. Constellations. The footlights in the corners made them gleam.

The female mannequin was turned towards her companion with her hand raised halfway up, just short of his shoulder. It was an uninterpretable gesture that Rachel nonetheless tried to interpret. She stared at their blank faces until she annoyed herself. Why was she so curious? It was a window display, they changed every two weeks. It didn’t mean anything.

 

“I saw Saul Friedman and you talking the other day,” he said, coming up behind her while she waited in line in the cafeteria. “You work for finance?”

She turned, coffee cup in hand, and looked at him. He was carrying a tray with an apple and a bowl of soup on it. It wobbled alarmingly when he took a step forward. And he had no idea who she was.

“I do work with Saul, yes.” It wasn’t quite a lie. But why had she told it? Maybe it was the casual straightforward way he was talking to her, which she liked.

“Yeah, I figured you weren’t a perfume counter girl,” he said.

She glanced back over her shoulder. “No?”

“I just mean that you look real classy,” he said. “Not that you couldn’t be, if you wanted. Or that they don’t look classy too - god, what the hell is wrong with me. I need to stop talking.”

“It’s fine,” she said, biting back a laugh. “I know what you meant.”

“They always spray me when I have to go through cosmetics,” he complained, under his breath. “I think on purpose. I probably smell like Arpege right now.”

“Not that I notice,” she said.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that part.”

“You _did_ say it out loud.”

“I hear he’s tough,” he said. “Saul. But don’t let it get you down.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I can promise I’ll try.” Saul had been working for her family since she was a teenager. Somehow she had never thought of him as tough. She’d attended his daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. “How long have you been here?”

“Two months,” he said. “I do the windows - you don’t remember me, right?”

“I do,” she said. “The starry sky. I saw you putting it together.”

“I try to go with a theme,” he said. “Something a little more interesting than just displaying clothes. ‘Cause people see that everyday, and what about some mannequins is supposed to catch the eye? They’re boring. You have to cut through the background noise to get the customer’s attention. But I dunno. People might not get it.”

“I got it,” she said.

He looked very taken aback for someone who was receiving a compliment, like he couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. And then he grinned, widely. “Thanks,” he said. “I like it here. I mean I like it a lot better than other jobs I had.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

“You like it, too?”

She shrugged. “It suits me.”

He pointed to her coffee, eyebrows drawing together in concern. “That all you’re getting? I can buy you lunch if you don’t have any money on you.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I really only want coffee.” Typically she took her coffee upstairs in her office, but the machine she had up there was broken.

“Well, the offer’s open.” he said. “If you change your mind.”

What did he plan to do, she wondered, leave the line to go get her food if she asked for it? Apparently.

“That’s generous of you,” she said as they approached the cashier.

“Let me get the coffee,” he said, and held up a dollar bill. “C’mon, I bothered you this whole time. Least I can do.”

She looked at him for a long time, then, at his honest face - too long, really. They were supposed to be paying. “I wasn’t bothered.”

“Really?” he said, eyes bright with pleasure.

A flattering reaction, to be sure. The back of her neck prickled with an odd self-consciousness. Somehow every interaction they had went in a direction she didn’t expect.

“Um,” said the checkout girl. “Miss M -”

“Rachel,” she interrupted, well aware she was moving closer to real deception with every step. “Call me Rachel.”

The girl gaped at her. She looked back and forth between them like she was watching a tennis match. “Okay. So who’s paying?”

“He will,” Rachel said.

“Great,” he said, all enthusiasm, and leaned around her to pass over the bill. While his change was being counted he extended a hand to her. The tray shivered in the air, weighing on his wrist; she put the tips of her fingers on the edge to steady it. “Rachel? My name’s Michael. Michael Ginsberg.”

Rachel set her coffee down on the counter and took his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Michael.”

For whatever reason he wasn’t able to hold her gaze. Instead he looked down at their joined hands, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Me too.”

He collected his change and paid for his own meal. And lingered, after, clearly working up the nerve to say something. She noticed his hands were twitching.

“You want to find somewhere to sit?” he asked.

A warm wave of amusement washed over her. “I can’t. I really have to get back to the office. But it’s been nice talking to you.”

“Maybe next time,” Michael said. “Have a good day, alright?”

“I will,” said Rachel, and watched him find a table. He didn’t join any of the groups that were seated together to enjoy their lunch. Instead he found an empty spot in the corner of the room and sat down alone.

 

She walked out into a fresh snowfall that night. The streetlights were coming on, one by one, cutting through the gloom all down the street. Turning her coat collar up against the wind, she blinked away the melting snowflakes caught on her eyelashes and paused by the display window to take a look.

There was only one mannequin present. He was in shirtsleeves and trousers, turned sideways and posed as though running. A gabardine blazer hung just out of reach, suspended by thin clever wires. The arms were bent like bird wings; it was made to look like it was flying away.

 

They missed each other at work most of the time. Occasionally she would pass him down in the store or in the cafeteria and they would exchange nods, but she was always too busy to slow down. Though his position technically fell under marketing she had never seen him in that area of the building.

There was no reason for their paths at work to cross more closely, and certainly none for them to ever see each other outside of it. In all likelihood they never would have if she hadn’t walked into a subway station one freezing Valentine’s Day and found him sitting there.

He was sketching something in a notebook and didn’t look up until she was almost leaning over his shoulder. When he did it was with a confused blink. “You take the subway?” he asked.

“It’s convenient,” she said, and sat down next to him. She set her purse in her lap and peered into the pages of his book. He was drawing a diorama, populated by vaguely humanoid figures. One of them was sitting on a box. There wasn’t enough down for her to tell what the subject was supposed to be. “Is that for work?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was reading _The Crucible_ last night and got inspired.”

Rachel had been unwinding her scarf; she stopped midway and shot him a questioning look. “ _The Crucible_?”

“I don’t sleep real well sometimes,” he said, misunderstanding her query. “I was trying to relax.”

“Some light bedtime reading, to be sure.” She finished with her scarf and let it drape across her shoulders. “Did it work?”

“Kinda. I fell asleep but then I had nightmares.” He gestured at his drawing. “But when I woke up I couldn’t remember what they were about - just this feeling of being watched. So I’m trying to put it back together.”

“And you’re going to use this for a store window,” she said.

He traced an existing line with his pencil and made it thicker, darker. “I use everything,” he said. “What else would I do with it?”

Rachel, personally, wasn’t interested in putting her nightmares in a window for everyone to see. But she wasn’t going to tell him what to do. Besides, his idea would still have to be approved before he could use it. Someone would put their foot down if he got too wild. “You must be an art student.”

He smiled wryly and pointed to the scribbles on the page. “Does this look like the work of an artist to you?”

She took the book from him and flipped through it. Some pages were covered in cartoon doodles, others with abstract forms - jagged rectangles, looming round shapes that could have been either eyes or planets. He had filled them in with cheap pastel color - it spread to the next page and left traces on her fingers when she touched the paper. On one sheet she found a series of spiders - no, not that; they were elongated human hands, reaching out towards one another but not touching. He had shaded them blue and grey and brown, the colors of a bruise. In between there were words - fragments of poetry, maybe, or original work. Nothing she recognized.

“Have you heard of Kandinsky?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Artists can draw beyond a third grade level, generally. Unlike me.”

She gave him back his notebook. He slipped it into a scarred leather satchel sitting by his feet and dropped the pencil in as well. “If you’re not an artist, then what are you?”

“An ideas man,” he said.

“I’ve always admired that kind of creativity,” she said, “though it isn’t really my area.” She’d studied history in university. History and philosophy. She had wanted to know how things worked.

“More of a numbers person?”

“Not _just_ that,” she said. “Michael -”

Over their heads a speaker crackled to life. Rachel looked upwards in irritation. A tinny voice rolled out a set of instructions to the waiting crowd below: the trains were experiencing technical problems. The trains would be delayed indefinitely -

There arose a collective groan of frustration. The sound of dozens of New Yorkers becoming impatient at once.

“You have gotta be kidding me,” Michael said.

Rachel stood and wrapped herself back up. “I’m getting a cab. What about you?”

“I’ll wait with you,” he said, and they joined the crowd filling back up the stairs.

But it was rush-hour and now there were twice as many people lined up along the sidewalk, trying to flag a taxi down. The snow had become grey with the dirt of the city. It piled up along the side of the road and sprayed on Rachel’s shoes every time a car passed. The wind cut at her bitterly when she raised her arm and called out to a cabbie heading her direction; she shivered and pulled her jacket closer around herself.

The cab pulled over and Michael opened the door. “Thanks for seeing me out,” she said, and squeezed his hand in a goodbye. Because she was facing him she didn’t see the man shoving past her into the backseat.

Literally shoving - he knocked her over. She landed squarely on her ass, which may have been the best she could ask for under the circumstances but still hurt like hell. The car pulled away before she could do anything further, like yell or get back up or throttle him like he deserved.

Michael helped her get to her feet with his hands cupped under her elbows. She let him pull her up off the frozen ground, wincing as her heels slid on the ice. “What a fucking _asshole_ ,” he fumed. “You hurt anywhere, Rachel? Need a doctor, maybe?”

“Only my pride,” she said. And her keister, but she wasn’t going to announce that to the surrounding audience. She had bobbled her ankle when she went over and tested it by putting her weight on that foot; it was a little sore, but not significantly injured. Her hair was hanging into her face and she had gone hot with anger and embarrassment. She exhaled through her nose. It didn’t calm her down any. “I’d like to go get cleaned up.”

The closest place they could find was dominated by a long lunch counter down one wall, but it had booths in the corners and most importantly a public washroom. Michael got a booth by the window and she continued on to the ladies, moving stiffly.

There had been an investor's meeting that afternoon. Rachel was dressed up for it; her best winter suit, a matching hat and real silk stockings. The hem of her skirt was flecked with dirt and the stockings were a scratched-up wreck. They would have to be thrown out when she got home. She was relieved to note there was no injury to the skin underneath.

Her coat took the brunt of the damage. It had a huge wet spot on the back, mud and snow and tiny rocks clinging to the fabric. With a sigh she carried it to the sink and wiped it off as best she could. A good drycleaner would have to fix what she couldn’t repair. God, she wished she’d gotten in one good whack with her purse.

She was re-pinning her hair when someone knocked on the door. A woman holding a small girl by the hand stood outside. Rachel smiled apologetically at her and moved aside to let them in.

“You okay?” asked Michael before she even reached the booth. “That took a while.”

“I was putting myself back together,” she said, and slid carefully into the booth to avoid worsening the affected area. There was a menu in front of her, as well as a bowl with ice cubes and a dry rag.

He saw her looking at it. “I got you some ice, just in case.”

“I appreciate the gesture,” she said, slowly, “but Michael - did you intend for me to _sit_ on it?”

“I -” he looked down at the bowl and then back up at her. “I didn’t think - oh my god.”

“I can’t do that in public.”

He tried to suppress a laugh by pressing the side of his hand against his mouth. It made him snort instead, which made him laugh harder. And then she did too, the pressure of long meetings and bad public transportation and aggressive men finally easing off her shoulders.

“I swear I wasn’t - intending to draw attention to that part of your anatomy.”

“Too late,” she murmured as she opened up her menu. But he meant well, and it was a relief to be around some transparent goodwill for once.

She ordered them each a coffee to shake off the cold when the waitress came around. “I’ll pay this time,” Rachel said after she’d gone. “And I don’t want to hear any arguments from you about it.”

“You won’t get any,” he said, mildly. “Why would I argue with free food?”

Their coffee arrived - he took his without cream, and with far too much sugar. Abruptly he put his mug down and said to her, “It didn’t occur to me before. This must be screwing up your plans.”

“What plans?” she asked, going over her schedule in her head and trying to determine if she forgotten an appointment that, somehow, he knew about.

“With your husband,” he said. “Or boyfriend or whoever.”

“Husband?” she asked, a bit blank, and then caught on to what he meant. “Oh, _Valentine’s_ Day. No, I didn’t have anything planned. I don’t have a husband.”

“Me neither,” he said.

She couldn’t tell if that was a deliberate joke or some kind of Freudian slip. “I liked your Valentine’s display.”

He waved her off, impatient. “All I did was rip off Casablanca. I know shit about romance.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she said. “At least your choice of inspiration was in good taste.”

“Is it?” he said. “I never thought that movie was all that romantic. She leaves. With a man she doesn’t love. The only one who wins is Claude Rains, ‘cause he gets his beautiful friendship.”

“Then why did you pick it?”

“Other people think it’s romantic,” he said. “So it doesn’t matter what my opinion is. I figured they’d recognize it. That they’d think it was cute, and it would get people inside the store.” He paused, frowning. “But maybe that’s what romance is. Something that ends before it gets too ugly, so at least you get a nice memory.”

“You are far too young to be this cynical,” she said.

“I’m not that young,” he said. “I’m twenty-one.”

Jesus Christ, twenty-one years old. Love was invented by guys like me to sell nylons, she thought, and felt a chill, an unpleasant tingle between her shoulderblades. As though Don where a spectre in the room.

She must have looked arrested because Michael saw. “What?” he asked, concerned or puzzled. Both.

“Nothing,” she said. “Goose walking over my grave. Look, I’ve - had things end ugly, like you say. But I don’t believe that means giving up is the only option left. Love isn’t a once in a lifetime event. _That’s_ where the lie is. The part that someone made up to get teenagers to buy chocolates for the prettiest girls in homeroom on Valentine’s day.”

“It used to be called Lupercalia,” he said.

“What?”

“Valentine’s Day,” he said. “It was called Lupercalia, in Rome. I read about it. It had something to with wolves, and fertility, and purifying the city. People ran naked through the streets.”

“And from that came paper hearts. Why?”

He shrugged. “Christians.”

“I can’t wait until you have to make a Christmas display,” she said.

“I wanted to do Romeo and Juliet for this one,” he said. “The tail end of the play, where they’re both dead.”

She stared at him until he cracked, a smile creeping back on to his face. “You’re kidding.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

The waitress stopped by to top up their coffee. She was about Michael’s age, a freckled redhead who had a rose pinned to her cardigan. A petal came loose and drifted down to the table. When Rachel glanced out at the restaurant she saw that all the waitresses wore them. The flowers were pink. There had been a man selling pink rose bouquets that morning in the subway. She wondered if they were one and the same. A little color for the holiday.

“Hope you’re having a nice Valentine's,” said the girl. “Got some nice chocolates or what not.”

“Oh, it’s been very interesting,” Rachel said.

“You sure you don’t want anything else?”

“Coffee’s fine,” said Michael.

Rachel watched the girl leave. She walked carefully, like her shoes weren’t broken in yet and were hurting her feet. “The Victorians had a whole language for flowers. They sent each other coded messages using bouquets. To communicate what they couldn’t say out loud.” She picked up the petal and rubbed it between two fingers. “Red for romance, pink for affection. Yellow meant friendship.”

“Not so different than a valentine.”

“No.” Rachel dropped the petal into an ashtray on the center of the table. “Same principle. Sublimation of a kind.”

“What about hearts?”

“Sorry?”

“This,” he made a heart with his hands, “does not look like _this_.” Three taps against his chest, slightly off center.

“That I don’t know the reason for.”

“Where’d you learn about the flowers?”

“Barnard,” she said. “It came up in one of my classes.”

“Poetry,” he said. “You were going to be a poet.”

“No,” she said with a smile. “Not even a failed one. I never wrote poetry. You?”

“Poetry?” he asked. “Or college?”

“Either,” she said. “But I really meant whatever you were doing before Menken’s.” He might be fresh out of college himself; he was the right age for it.

“I was a copywriter,” he said.

“You - really.” Rachel had the oddest feeling she was being laughed at, though not by him. There must have been a higher power having fun at her expense. On this day of all days. Of course it was a coincidence - but what _timing_. “You didn’t work for Sterling Cooper, did you?”

“No,” he said, “Leo Burnett and a couple other places. I was a freelancer. Why?”

“We used to be with them,” she said. “It was an acrimonious divorce.”

“I gave it up,” he said. “Okay, I got fired. But I was sick of the whole business. I don’t look right. I don’t sound right. I was too loud, I was too crude. Too Jewish. And they didn’t hesitate to tell me so.”

“They never do,” said Rachel.

“There’s only so much time you can spend around people who don’t want you there. It’s not that I cared what they thought, but I was banging my head against a brick wall all the time. Even my thick skull started to feel the effects. And I thought, what am I gonna have to give up to stay here? What pieces do I sell off? I decided to try my luck somewhere else. Which was crazy, ‘cause it’s not like I was swimming in offers.”

“That isn’t crazy,” said Rachel, and then reconsidered. “Not _completely_ crazy.”

He grinned, apparently willing to take her comment in the spirit it was intended. “My fa - _certain_ people thought I was out of my mind. It’s such a fucked up industry, though. I could feel it getting inside my head. It’s unethical, you know? You’re supposed to advertise cigarettes to schoolchildren and booze to alcoholics. But you can make money at it. So much money.”

Again Rachel thought of Don. In all likelihood he was a millionaire by now, if he hadn’t already been when they met. “You wanted something cleaner.”

“I wanted to limit the damage I was doing.”

“Do you think you made the right decision?”

“Ask me in ten years.”

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d gone in a different direction, career-wise,” Rachel said. “I did consider being an academic at one point.”

“Do you regret not trying?”

“No,” she said. “I’m where I ought to be. But then again, I’m not looking for -” she waved her hand in a vague gesture, trying to get her thoughts together, “creative satisfaction.”

He shifted in his seat. Only the cooling dregs of their coffee were left, and they were running out of excuses to linger. “But as you see I’m not an artist. I’m a peddler. I might as well be pushing my fruit cart around.”

She leaned back and looked at him - really looked at him, at the serious shape of his mouth and the anxious line between his eyebrows. He was carrying a remarkable amount of stress for someone his age. “What are you doing this evening?”

“What?” he asked, startled. “I - nothing. I have no plans, remember?”

Rachel threw a couple dollars down on the table, more than enough to cover the coffee. “Then come with me. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“No.”

He went anyway, with very little hesitation. Stepped out into the cold with his coat still undone.

“Follow me,’ she said, and he did.

 

Rachel only hoped she still knew the way. She hadn’t taken the bus for years - the subway was fine after work but on weekends she took taxis, not wanting to waste her free time. And she would rarely have a reason to head up this way any other day.

“I feel like I’m a kid,” he said. “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

But really he didn’t talk much at all. He looked out the window curiously the whole way. Rachel could tell he was trying to guess their destination. “I’m not going to leave you stranded somewhere,” she said.

“I trust you completely,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up.

When they got off the bus he took a step back and stared up at the building. “You wanted to show me the Museum of Modern Art?”

“No, I want to show you what’s _inside_.”

“What about it?”

“You’ll see.” Her heels clicked against the floor of the lobby as they crossed it. She paid for their admission and peeled her gloves off, slipping them inside her purse. “Have you been here before?”

“Once, a real long time ago,” he said. “It was for a school field trip.”

“As educational as they hoped it would be?”

“Not that I can remember,” said Michael. “We ran around a bunch and got yelled at by the teacher.”

“I’m not much of a yeller,” said Rachel. She’d always found that people who raised their voices a lot didn’t have much authority in the first place. “Hopefully you’ll enjoy yourself more this time.”

“Better company,” he said. When she looked over at him he was already wandering towards one of the exhibits.

It was a ink sketch of a grotesque figure with a swollen head and spindly limbs. The title card read _The Cretin, Jose Luis Cuevas_.

He stood in front of it with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted to the side. Gone quiet, almost troubled.

“Do you find this to be beautiful?” she asked.

“I’m admiring the family resemblance,” he said.

She looked at him askance. He didn’t notice, too fixated on the picture. “But is it beautiful?”

“No, it’s not beautiful.”

“Alright,” she said. “Now is it art?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on,” she said, with a nod towards the long hallway stretching out before them. “There’s more.”

She put her hand on his arm and led him along. They stopped at Kandinsky first; she was curious if he would understand the comparison she made back in the subway.

He stepped in close to _Picture with an Archer_. The colors were energetic and blurred, the shapes fading into one another. There was a building in the background, all turrets and pointed domes; a church, she guessed. A horse leapt into the frame with its rider astride, bow cocked. The forms were as simple as if a child had drawn them and the pigments swirled together, blue and green and orange. It gave the composition a feeling of circular movement, a whirlpool in paint.

“He was the first great abstract artist,” she said. “He made the leap from impressionism into something new. The Rothkos of the world owe him.”

“Looks sorta like a fairytale,’ he said. “But not like the kind they have here. The ones where women turn into swans or someone steals the sun. It’s, um -”

“Eastern?” she asked. “He was Russian. That influence was still there even much later.”

“Old world,” he said. “More golem of Prague than glass slippers.”

“Kandinsky lived in France for most of his life,” she said. “He may have missed home.”

“An exile,” said Michael, and straightened up.

“It’s good for the art, apparently,” Rachel said.

“It better be good for something.”

She wondered what he meant by that, but he was already moving on. They passed a row of sculptures that looked like twisted playdough, bumpy loops of clay in terra cotta tan. He raised his hand and then dropped it back down by his side.

“I forget you aren’t supposed to touch the displays,’ he said. “But then I always did have to be told to look with my eyes and not my hands.”

“When I was small I used to put things in my mouth,” Rachel said, though why she had decided to volunteer that information she couldn’t say. “My nanny eventually resorted to putting chili pepper on everything.”

“I did that too,” he said. “I swallowed a marble once. Had to get an x-ray and everything. It was kind of exciting.”

The wall opposite them was dominated by two large canvases. He walked over to them, pulled in the same way he had been with the Cuevas. They were both by Francis Bacon, and the more she looked the more disturbing they became. One of his Pope paintings - or a study for one - and something that combined sides of meat with a grimacing or grinning figure under an umbrella. She had never actually seen any of Bacon’s work up close. An art history professor had shown them slides of it at Barnard and had gotten reprimanded for going outside the curriculum.

She came up behind him and touched his back lightly, which made him jump.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

He smiled. “You don’t want to know if I think it’s beautiful?”

“Well?”

“No,” he said, smile fading. “But I can’t stop looking at it.”

“Describe what you see.”

“You can see it as well as I can.”

“No,” she said. “I can see what _I_ see. I asked about you.”

“Always asking the easy questions, aren’t you?” Michael ran a hand through his hair and stared at the paintings. “Okay. What I see - it’s raw. Uncooked. They don’t seem finished. Like he - whoever this guy is - cracked his head open and spilled everything out onto a canvas.”

“The sleep of reason produces monsters,” she said, and shook her head at his curious expression. “Goya. Nevermind.”

“Another artist?”

“Yes,” she said. “You could call him a kind of precursor to this. Though I would guess that he was less self-conscious. Bacon intends to shock. Goya just _is_.”

“You know so much,” he said. “How do you know so much?”

Rachel was leaning into him, she realized, far too close. She had been carried away by their conversation and hadn’t noticed.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, retreating to a respectable distance. “I read a fair amount. And I’ve had many advantages.”

“Advantages do not a brain make,” he said. “Trust me that I know.”

That was true. She thought of her classmates, too, so many of them brilliant and curious women that shut off those parts of themselves once they got married. With each follow up visit Rachel had felt more and more out of place. The end was always the same: smiling blandly over cucumber sandwiches at someone she didn’t know at all anymore, and maybe never did. At which point she would stop going.

“So what next?” he asked.

She aimed for something more lighthearted - which she clearly would not get if he was allowed to choose - and brought him to see Joseph Cornell.

They went along the wall examining boxes that were filled with objects both valueless and precious, like a child’s collection of colored stones. There were three of them; a jewelry box decorated with square glass cubes lined the way an ice tray would be, but pressed into velvet; a constructed honeycomb lined with an old photograph and chicken wire; and Rachel’s favorite, _Central Park Carrousel_. It was strikingly white, almost icy, and contained a flat paper globe overlaid with a black sky on which Orion strode forward in battle, club raised into the air. The foreground was half covered with widely-spaced wire netting, giving an impression of looking through a fence at the world beyond.

She and Michael sat down on a bench to consider them from afar. “They’re like windows into little universes,” he said.

“I used to come to this museum a lot when I was young,” she said. “I was a solitary girl. It was a bit of an escape.”

“Did it work?”

“Sometimes,” she said. The gallery was quiet as a church. They were entirely alone; it put her in a confessional mood that she didn’t bother fighting. “What about you? Was there somewhere you went, when things got to be too much?”

“Coney Island,” he said. “I used to watch the roller coasters go up and down. I’d stay there until the sun set, on bad days. When I was having trouble in school or whatever. It would freak my father out; I’d go straight after class ended and not come home until dark.”

“I met him once,” she said. “Joseph Cornell. A very, very shy man. He couldn’t look at me when he shook my hand.” The kind of person who tried to get through life as unobtrusively as possible, embarrassed by his own presence.

“I only ever knew artists when I was in advertising,” Michael said. “Not there wasn’t anyone in my neighborhood who could put a line on a page - it’s different, though. Nobody wants to get caught taking it seriously. Taking themselves seriously. You find a solid dependable job and keep your mouth shut. Ambition is for people who can afford it.”

“I can understand that.”

He looked at her in surprise. “I thought you had - whatsit. Advantages.”

“I’m still a woman, aren’t I?” she asked. “No one encourages women to do anything but marry well.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Uh huh.”

He scratched his chin and cast a glance at her from the corner of his eye. Every gesture was a nervous tic of one kind or another. “And I should have.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “It wouldn’t have occurred to most men.”

“I assumed - well, you’re so smart. So someone must have seen it, and encouraged you. I was acting like the world is how I want it to be instead of how it is.”

“I’m not claiming I never received any support,” she said. “But it was a long way from their expectations to where I am now.”

No one called Rachel stupid. Or at least they didn’t do it twice. But that wasn’t the same thing as being expected to excel on her terms instead of someone else’s. Her drive and ambition had been a novelty until no one could ignore it. It was if her achievements were supposed to be pretty baubles she used to draw in that mythical husband, the one she ought to have been searching for. A family, a marriage, a home. And then to help run community projects, to head the PTA or contribute to the arts. An impressive woman in an unthreatening way; perfectly alright as long as she never got to make a decision.

She had never been able to make herself small enough. She had never wanted to.

“We got that in common,” he said, and she found she agreed with him. They shared a push towards aggressive self-definition. It was strange to recognize such a large part of herself in another person.

Or they were both just stubborn as hell.

Rachel curled her toes inside her shoes. All day in heels. If she had planned ahead on doing this much walking, she would have worn lower ones. “How are you liking the museum?”

“Better than when I was a kid,” he said. “But I’m still not sure I get all of it. Some of it’s great, and some looks like someone tore a page out of my sketchbook and slapped it in a frame.”

His words caught up with him after he said them. She stayed quiet while he turned towards her, kept her face devoid of all emotion.

“Rachel?”

“Yes?”

“Is that why you brought me here?”

“Might be,” she said.

He let out a sudden laugh. His shoulders bounced with it, bumping against her. The melancholy that followed him like a persistent cloud evaporated for the moment. “That is a _long_ way to go to prove a point.”

“I like to be thorough.”

“You like to _win_ ,” he said. “But I don’t mind.”

Some warm and peculiar space opened up inside Rachel’s chest. Certainly she didn’t get complimented on her competitive spirit often. She wondered what it could mean. “Thanks.”

Her hair was coming loose under her hat - she hadn’t pinned it securely enough when redoing it in the bathroom. She tucked a few strands behind her ear and looked back out at the Cornell boxes. Until he spoke she assumed he was doing the same.

“Let me buy you dinner,” he said.

Rachel was sure that her face - taken aback, warming quickly from the surprise - was a picture, but he never saw it. He kept his eyes facing forward in the direction of the art and she was sure he couldn’t have described any of it if she had asked. The tips of his ears were red. Yet he persevered.

“Or a drink,” he continued.

It occurred to Rachel that she may have given him the wrong idea. It also occurred to her that she really wanted that drink. All that waited for her at home was an empty apartment and a stack of paperwork she needed to get done for tomorrow.

“I can’t,” she said, because Rachel Menken - damn her - was a responsible person. “Maybe we can go another day.”

Michael got to his feet, and so did she. “We’ll do lunch,” he said, with the vagueness of someone very polite who expected their invitation to be immediately forgotten. It was all wrong coming from him. A piece of dialogue written for someone else.

He was also giving her an out. All she had to do was nod, smile and make no promises.

“Where did they put your office?” she asked instead.

“By the back entrance, the big loading dock,” he said. “They converted an old closet. Why?”

“Because I may stop by,” she said, all the while knowing that she shouldn’t be encouraging this - whatever this was.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Rachel and Michael left the museum seperately. She took a taxi while he decided to try his luck with the subway again. They parted with a friendly wave, and she got into the car with no stumbles or interruptions this time.

In the back of the cab she removed her hat and pulled the pins from her hair one by one. It fell messily around her shoulders and she rubbed the tender spots on her scalp. What a bizarre day. But a good one.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sex gets mildly kinky at the end? I doubt that will be a problem for anyone.

 

 

 

 

He wasn’t kidding about the office being a closet. There were pipes protruding from the walls, one of them dripping into a baking pan left on the floor. They’d given the walls a quick coat of whitewash but it didn’t help much when there were no windows.

There were two desks crammed inside, one of which was occupied by Michael. The other one was empty, though there were signs of life there; pens, a typewriter with a half-written page, some balled up tissues.

Michael swiveled in his chair when she opened the door. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.

He threw the pencil in his hand down. “Nope. You’re right on time. I was about to take a break.”

She got a cigarette out. “Do you mind?” It wasn’t the best idea in such a small, airless room but she had been craving one since midmorning.

“Go for it,” he said. “Everyone else does.” He pulled the chair at the other desk out and indicated that she should sit down.

“Where’s your roommate?” she asked after she did.

“Out sick,” he said. “It’s kinda a relief. He eats at his desk and gets crumbs everywhere.”

Rachel lit her cigarette and crossed her legs. There were magazine pages taped to the walls, as well as a collection of photographs of surprisingly good quality: the skyline in the rain, pigeons lifting off from a gutter, pretty girls laughing in the street. “Your work?”

He looked over at them and shook his head. “I can’t even figure out a camera. A buddy of mine took them. He’s learning photography so his job won’t make him obsolete. Those are his cast-offs.”

“Make him obsolete? What is he doing?”

“Advertising - he was at Leo Burnett when I was there. He’s an artist but he says everything is moving to photography now. I don’t think he’s happy about it.”

“They’re good.”

She got up and walked over to the pictures, which took all of four steps. They were primarily in black and white. One was the back of a man’s head, his white collar and the beginnings of a plaid jacket. He had a hand on the nape of his neck, like he was nervous or puzzling over something. It was an oddly vulnerable pose.

“That’s you, right?”

“Ha,” he said. “Good eye! I made him give it to me because he took it without my permission, the sneaky bastard. But he would only do it if I promised not to throw it out.”

“And you kept your promise.”

“Yeah,” he said. “What else would I do?”

Rachel once spent a summer posing as an artist’s model. He’d taken quite a few reference photos. Presumably they would come back to haunt her should she ever run for office, given how few clothes had been involved. But then, ending up in bed together had been the point. Being dressed would have gotten in the way.

She assumed it had been different for Michael and his friend. Though of course she couldn’t know for sure.

“It’s nothing embarrassing,” she said, sitting back down. “Actually, it’s very well done. I’d keep it too.”

“The best picture anyone ever took of me,” he said, “so of course you can’t even see my face.”

She checked her watch with a subtle glance. There wasn’t time for them to go stand in line for coffee, but she could stay for a while longer yet.

Her intention was that he wouldn’t see - she was trying not to be rude - but naturally he noticed, the way he tended to notice things she hadn’t planned on sharing.

“You busy today?” he asked. “I know we’re at what’s-it-called. Quarter end.”

“Very,” she said. “But I needed to step out.” Five minutes where no one wanted anything from her. That was all she wanted. Good thing, because it was all she was going to get.

She could have gone outside, into the tentative spring. Had intended to, in fact, and yet found herself wandering through the back end of the building searching for offices that could have been closets. She was glad to have caught him alone. It would have been difficult to explain her presence to an employee. Their little encounters were gaining a clandestine flavor, which was ridiculous. They weren’t doing anything that needed to be kept a secret at all.

“I started writing a story the other day,” he said, so nonchalant and I-don’t-care that he could only have cared a great deal. “I might illustrate it, I don’t know.” And then, catching sight of her reaction: “Oh, don’t look so smug.”

“I’ll be as smug as I like,” she said, with a triumphant edge to her smile. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s about this woman,” he said. “A very mysterious woman, who keeps dragging the protagonist off on confusing outings -”

She poked him in the ankle with her shoe. “Stop, I actually want to know.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. It’s about ghosts. Except they aren’t really ghosts - they’re memories. Which is the same thing, really.”

He went through through the first part of the story, stopping only once: to hand her an empty styrofoam cup to serve as a makeshift ashtray for her cigarette. The central character was a traumatized soldier who saw the shades of people he once knew - in grocery store line-ups, waiting for buses, delivering newspapers. His grandfather, an old grammar school teacher, a boy who died in the war that he couldn’t forget. Michael’s ideas were interesting and undeniably spooky - she could see why he had headed straight for Cuevas and Bacon when they were at the museum. She would have liked to have shown him Otto Dix, but it hadn’t occurred to her at the time. And it might have been too much; his work had been rooted in real terrors more than the other two.

“We’re going to have to put a pin in it,” she said, because already she had passed her self imposed deadline. “I have to get back. But I like what I’ve heard so far.”

“I don’t have an ending yet,” he said. “I never know what the ending should be until I get there.”

“Who does?” she asked. “I’d like to read it once you finish.”

“We’ll see,” he said, but he smiled and she thought that he would let her.

Back in her office she put in a call to maintenance. That pipe needed to be fixed; it was going to cause a mildew problem. She couldn’t imagine why no one had taken care of it before.

 

 

 

They went for coffee semi-regularly after that; in April a new café opened down the street and she brought him there on one bright morning and insisted he have an espresso. “I don’t care if you like it,” she said when he demurred. “But how can you tell if you don’t try?”

“What is it,” he said, “French?”

“This is how they have it in Italy.”

“You been there?”

“A few years ago,” she said. “But only Rome.”

“Oh,” he said, grinning. “ _Only_ Rome. Well, that’s nothing. That hardly counts at all.”

“Shush,” she said, “I’m buying you coffee. Behave yourself.”

He was much freer and easier around her lately, which she was pleased about. When it was his turn to choose a venue he brought her to some place called Burger Barn for lunch. “What?” he asked, all wide eyed guilelessness when she gave him a look as they approached the door. “Not good enough for you?”

“I’m going to order something drowning in onions,” she said, “just for that.”

They ate at the counter, sitting on tall stools with their feet hanging down. The waitress refilled their drinks without having to be asked and Rachel tore into her meal like she hadn’t eaten all week.

 

 

 

“Did Cardin call you back?” Saul asked as they strode across the sales floor. “I thought they were tightening their distribution.”

The scene was minor chaos; there had been some kind of mix-up in shipping and there were boxes of hats and shoes no one had ordered everywhere. Worse, half of it had been unpacked before anyone noticed the problem. They’d pulled in most of cosmetics to help deal with the mess.

“They are,” Rachel said. “Carl said -”

She had been walking with her head down and didn’t see Michael until she was on top of him. He dropped the hat boxes he was carrying - five of them, stacked on top of one another - when they collided.

Rachel started to apologize. “That was my fault -”

“We have to stop running into each other like this,” Michael said when she knelt down to help him deal with the confusion.

“ - and that’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Rachel, “so now I don’t feel bad for it.”

She could feel Saul’s curiosity radiating out from behind her. “Saul,” she said, waving a hat at him by way of introduction. “This is Michael Ginsberg. He does the windows.”

“Hey,” Michael said, and reached up to shake Saul’s hand without actually standing up. Rachel tucked her smile away behind her hand. “Nice to meet you finally.”

“Finally?” Saul asked.

“Y’know, cause you work with Rachel,” he said. “She’s told me about you.”

“Oh?” Saul said, eyebrows raising. He seemed very amused. “How so?”

“Not gossip and crap,” Michael said, quickly. “Just good stuff.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” said Saul. “So how do you two know each other?”

“Oh,” said Rachel, somehow taken aback by this extremely expected question. “Well, I - Michael was setting up a display -”

“The cafeteria,” Michael said at the same time. “Uh, that was the first time we - we were standing in line, right Rachel? And -”

Thank god there was an interruption. Rachel wasn’t sure what she would have done without one. A salesgirl stepped into the aisle, also weighed down by boxes. “Miss Menken? I keep getting conflicting information about where we’re supposed to be sending these.”

“Of course,” Rachel sighed. “Just a minute, okay?”

“No,” said Michael. His typically mobile face was stiff, pinched. “I got it.”

“You -”

“I got it, I’m done,” he said, and popped back up with the boxes in his arms. He didn’t look at her, or say anything else. Just spun on his heel and left.

 

 

 

She didn’t find out what was going on with him until late that evening. By rights he should have already left, but she knew he tended to keep late hours. Just as she suspected there was light spilling out from under the office door. It wasn’t locked, either - she opened it a crack and looked inside. “Anyone home?”

There was, but not only Michael. His officemate was at his desk, a lanky kid with gingery hair and round pale eyes. He reminded Rachel of a scarecrow - at least three inches of wrist showed at the ends of his sleeves - and he goggled at her openly.

Michael didn’t turn around. He kept working on a sketch, charcoal smudged all over his hands. “Can I help you, Miss Menken?”

She stared at the back of his head for a full minute, trying to figure out what his problem was. Then it hit her, all at once, in a surge of embarrassment. The truth was that she had completely forgotten that he didn’t know the store was hers. If she had thought about it she would have assumed that someone else would already have told him.

“May I speak with you for a moment?” she asked, every bit as polite as he was.

“Is it a work related matter?”

Rachel glanced at the redhead, who pushed himself up against his desk so hard that he appeared to be trying to meld with it. She was getting annoyed. “No,” she said. “It’s not work related.”

“Then I’m gonna have to say no.” And with that Michael got up, crossed the small room briskly, and closed the door in her face.

Rachel didn’t startle. She counted to ten and yanked the door back open. “Get out,” she said to the kid whose name she couldn’t remember - had she been told it? He shot past her like a frightened rabbit.

“You’ve got two minutes to clear up this tantrum,” she said in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

He disagreed all the same. Of course. With a sharp, angry movement he balled up whatever he had been working on and tossed it in the trash. “Tell me one thing: was it funny to you, humiliating me? Because I’d sure like for one of us to be enjoying ourselves.”

“For god’s sake,” Rachel said impatiently. “I didn’t do it on purpose. Stop being a child.”

He turned on her. “Being a _child_? I’m not the one who pretended to be somebody else!”

She clenched her teeth together. “I never did.”

“That’s exactly what you did. No, no - listen to me! You’re my boss, you own the fucking company. Did you think that wouldn’t be relevant information? I was - I was following after you like a stupid puppy. Oh, you must have had a good laugh.”

An ache welled up in her, hot and ugly. “Would you have cared if I was a man?”

“What?”

“Would you have cared if I was a man,” she snapped. “Would you have cared if your new good friend, this person who took an interest in you, was a man. Would it matter that he was your boss? I don’t think so. When men have more money or experience it’s a mentorship. When women do it’s a _problem_ -”

“Oh, that is bullshit. Bullshit - you know I don’t believe that -”

“ - but the problem is not me, it’s your goddamned ego. It’s been the same with every man I have ever known and you may think you’re different but let me tell you, mister: you _aren’t_.”

“Oh,” he said. His voice was low and awful. “That’s what you think of me, huh?”

They had gotten louder; she was sure even in such a deserted part of the building they must have attracted an audience. Yet she couldn’t stop herself. “What if I did?” she asked as dismissively as possible. “So what if I did? According to you I’ve only been _amusing_ myself, so what difference does it make?”

He took a step forward. “Then fire me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fire me,” he said. “I’d rather be unemployed than a joke.”

She moved in close enough that she could almost feel heat coming off him. He was red faced and breathing heavily; she could feel the blood rushing to her own cheeks, pounding in her ears. She had an urge to shove him over - for something rough and unfettered, _something_ -

“No,” she growled, “because it’s what you _want_.”

And then she swept out, slamming the door behind her with a very satisfying crack.

 

 

 

Rachel went straight up to Saul’s office. “Please say your liquor cart is stocked.”

“Refreshed as of this morning,” said Saul. He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses and looked mildly at her. “But you don’t usually partake of it.”

Rachel strode over to the cart and mixed herself a quick gin martini. The dryness of the vermouth rang like a bell in her mouth as she tossed it back; afterwards all she could taste was juniper. “Today is a special day.”

“Special good or special bad?”

“Special like I’m wondering if you have anything stronger.”

“Ah,” said Saul. He came over and helped himself to a thin finger of bourbon. “That kind of special. Don’t mix your liquors, it’ll only make you sick.”

Excellent advice as always. “Saul, you never steer me wrong.” She topped up and added an olive; lemon was her preference, but he didn’t have any.

“Sit,” he said, and she dropped into the plush armchair he had in the corner of his office. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” she said. “And everything.”

Saul smiled. He sat back and steepled his fingers in a way that she knew well; he made that gesture when he was about to drive a hard bargain. “That narrows it down.”

“What would,” Rachel said with a gusty sigh. “I don’t understand what’s going on myself.”

Saul tilted his head to the side. “I’m assuming the problem is a personal one?”

“You could say so,” Rachel admitted. She had the beginnings of a stress headache and also the early stirrings of post-argument shame. Damn, why had she allowed herself to fight with Michael so publicly? Dignity was important, her father had always told her, and on the bad days, the ones you couldn’t control, it was the only thing a person had. She tossed hers away to get a few barbs in. There was no reason they couldn’t have kept their conversation private except that she foolishly lost her temper.

“Is it -” Saul stopped and seemed to reconsider. He looked uncertain, which was rare for him. “Is it an issue with your young man?”

Rachel stared. No matter how long she kept at it the statement didn’t change. “You can’t be serious.”

“Have I misunderstood?”

“Saul, for god’s sake,” she said. “We aren’t having an _affair_.”

He shrugged, parting his hands in a placating gesture. “Then I was wrong. You seemed upset; I made an assumption.”

“How many people have made that assumption?” Oh, it was her own fault. She could have put an end to things at any point; probably should have, back at the museum when she realized he was attracted to her. Hell, Michael had been expecting her to. But she had continued on for no other reason than wanting to.

“I have no idea,” said Saul. “I haven’t been gossiping about your personal life, Rachel.”

She believed him, but that didn’t mean no one else was. “I should have been -” _more careful_ , but that implied blame. “I should have thought ahead. I suppose I’ll have to live it down.”

“Live it down?” Saul asked, puzzled. “You wouldn’t be the first person to have let someone unexpected get under your skin. You wouldn’t be the last. Besides, how many men have married their secretaries?”

“I’m not _marrying_ anybody,” Rachel said. She drained the last of her drink and balanced the glass on the wooden arm of the chair, turning it slowly under her fingers.

“But if you were it wouldn’t be their business,” said Saul.

“No,” said Rachel. “But try convincing anyone.”

Saul opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a pack of cigars. His wife wanted him to quit so he only smoked at work. “So what,” he said, lighting up. “That never stopped you before.”

It hadn’t, and he was right. She was overthinking, getting tangled in perceptions she couldn’t control. And she had forgotten about her endurance; a wagging tongue or mean spirited rumour meant nothing. _Was_ nothing. “Thank you.”

He blew smoke out of his nose and grinned. “I didn’t say that was always a good thing.”

“Only most of the time,” she said, and got up. The empty glass she placed on the liquor caddy. Her head was clearer. Talking to Saul could have that effect; he was a sensible man. Good at clearing the cobwebs out.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Most of the time.”

 

 

 

Rachel thought that she would have to track Michael down but he came to her. She looked up from her memo pad and there he was, standing in the doorway, penitent. He had a bottle of root beer in his hand - it was what she’d ordered when they went out for hamburgers - which he offered to her.

“I figured flowers were a cliché and you might throw ‘em at me anyway,” he said. “But I don’t know anything about wine, or chocolates or whatever. I knew what kind of soda you liked.”

“Come in,” she said, and he did. He handed her the bottle and pulled a chair over. She sat on the edge of her desk; it had to be the most informal gesture she had ever made within these walls. But that was the point. She didn’t want him to think that she was relating to him as an employer.

“I should have told you,” she said before he could lunge into compulsive apologizing. “And I’m sorry that I didn’t. But I swear to you it’s because I forgot, not because I was making fun.”

“Why didn’t you tell me right away?” he asked. “That’s where I get confused. Why’d you let me keep chatting you up?”

“Because I liked the way you talked to me,” she said. “You were straightforward in a way most people aren’t.”

“Yeah,” he said. “‘Cause they’d get fired. I open my big mouth and I’m out on my ass. It’s happened before.”

“You’re confusing honesty for rudeness,” she said, and then paused. “Not to imply that you don’t have plenty of both.”

He almost laughed, but swallowed it instead. “Can’t argue there.”

“But I’m the one who called you a child and a chauvinist,” said Rachel. She couldn’t deny that she had been hitting below the belt. In the light of day her enthusiasm to hurt him was unsettling. “You accused me of lying, which was true. And of enjoying it - which was also true, just not the way you meant.”

“I thought you were gonna throw me out,” he said. “The minute I came in here. Have to say this is not what I expected.”

“Then why come?”

“To see if I was right. How else would I ever know?”

She had to admire his gumption, at least. “I’m glad you did. And I like being unpredictable.”

“I’ve been in a shitty mood lately,” he said, “so it’s not all your fault. The holiday, you know.”

“Holiday?” she asked, and then remembered. All that pink and yellow in the store, not to mention cosmetics sales. “You aren’t fond of Mother’s Day?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not - it’s a long story. A lot of holidays aren’t real great for me, I guess.”

Rachel paused a moment and wondered if she should bring her own feelings up; her mother’s death had been private family business, in such a way that everyone knew but no one would talk about it. Except for the pitying looks from strangers, which she had despised as long as she could remember them.

“I never liked a lot of them either,” she said. “It can be like that, when you don’t come of a traditional family.”

“I’m adopted,” he said. “No mother, just my old man. You?”

“You must have seen my father around,” she said. “Obviously he’s hale and hearty. My mother passed very young, I have no memories of her. So when the other children were making macaroni cards for their mothers I would make one for our housekeeper. Do you know much about them, your real parents?”

“Uh,” he said. “Not anything good. What happened to your Mom?”

He was looking away, picking at the edge of a fingernail. If she thought the question was idle curiosity she would have cut the conversation short then and there. She didn’t, so she gave him an answer.

“She died in childbirth,” Rachel said. “With me.”

“I’ve wondered that too,” he said, “about mine. But It’s impossible to tell. They were - my folks, whoever they’d been - they were in the camps. The adoption people said I was born there.”

It was near unbelievable and yet he wasn’t telling a lie; she could see an uncomfortable, raw honesty written all over him. In her confusion she almost reached out to put a hand on his arm. But the kindest thing she could do was to let him get through it without dramatics, so she did.

“I don’t know if that’s the truth,” he said, quietly. “I kinda tried researching, but…” He trailed off and shook his head. “How to even _start_. There’s so much I don’t know. I have no idea what they were called, or what they called me, or if they got a chance to name me at all. Michael comes from the orphanage and Ginsberg is my adopted name. I don’t know what day I was born, only the year.”

“Well,” she said. “You win, I have to say. I can’t compete with that.”

His wry smile was less an expression of pleasure than it was a release of tension. “The only contest I ever won, and the prize is crap. Figures.”

Rachel drew in a long breath. “If any conversation ever called for drinks, it’s this one,” she decided, and poured them each a small glass of cognac. By the time she turned back around he had carried another chair over and placed it in front of the desk, so that they could sit across from each other.

“Thanks,” he said, when she gave it to him. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “And I’m sorry about yours.”

“Didn’t take us long to make a cheerful holiday depressing.”

“We’re developing a pattern,” she said, but that wasn’t exactly right. She wasn’t unhappy, quite, and she didn’t believe he was either. Knowing that certain red-letter calendar days locked you out was one thing; having someone to share the experience with was another. “I don’t mind it. I say we get together to trash all non-religious holidays.”

“Great,” he said, visibly warming up. “I got President’s day in my sights next.”

“I’ll bring the alcohol,” she said.

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Not everyone would’ve reacted the way you did to what I just told you. Still be here, I mean, joking with me.”

“I didn’t do anything remarkable,” she said. “Except exhibit basic listening skills.”

“No, it is,” he said, giving her a steady, serious look. She found herself unable to break eye contact; it was like they were caught in motion, paused between frames of a film. “You treat me different than anyone else. That might not mean much to you but it does to me.”

“It’s nothing -” she started before halting, tongue-tied. She fumbled with her glass when she took a drink and felt odd indeed, a shadow of their fight coming back to haunt her somehow (her chest tight, her heartbeat rapid). The cognac did not sooth her nerves. Suddenly she was imprecise, unsure as a schoolgirl. “We’re friends,” she finished, lamely. But it was all she could think to say.

“Yeah,” he said, and his smile was very -

“When do you celebrate your birthday?” she asked.

“September 20th,” he said. “Which my father picked because that was the day we met.”

“That’s interesting,” she said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You - _no_.” He shook his finger at her. “Do not make a big deal out of it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s fake,” he said. “The date is meaningless. Who cares about birthdays anyway, getting born isn’t an achievement.”

“For you?” she said. “I think it goddamned well _was_.” And it was his turn, now, to stare; his turn to be unable to look away from her.

 

 

 

“So what do you think?” Rachel asked, lifting her cigarette to her lips. “Are you interested?”

Michael squinted at her. “I dunno,” he said. “The opera? Isn’t that really fancy?”

Too fancy for him, he meant. “All sorts go. Though most people do dress up, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“To go see some yelling in german,” he said.

“Italian, typically,” she said. “We’re not going to the _Götterdämmerung_.”

“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds ominous,” he said.

“Opera is more than an art,” she said. “It’s an event. An experience. Aren’t you a bit curious? I can promise that _La Traviata_ is very good. I’ve seen it before.”

They were outside, taking a walk around the building and enjoying the sunshine before it faded in the fall. Even the breeze was warm. It cut through Michael’s hair as he shaded his eyes to look across the street at something. “I could rent a penguin suit,” he said.

“You could,” she said, and took comfort in the fact that he wouldn’t be able to avoid getting fitted properly. “I can give you a recommendation, if you like.”

“You rent a lot of tuxes?” he asked. “Why are you so interested in bringing me, anyway?”

“I have a dress I want to wear,” she said, lightly, which was true. A simple sleeveless gown in goldenrod silk, lower in the back than it was in the front. She hoped that it would serve as enough of an explanation for him, and he wouldn’t notice how close the day was to his adopted birthdate. “And if I’m going out I’d like decent company. You appreciate art.”

He worried his lower lip. “The tickets - how much would I owe you?”

“Nothing,” she said, “We’ve got season tickets, for wooing the heads of design companies.”

“Convenient,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll go. Shit - I mean, _thank you_ , I’ll go.”

“Good,” she said. She was by this point completely immune to his cursing. “I for one am looking forward to it.”

He was nervous, though, as he tended to be in social situations that had something riding on them. Rachel had noticed that he either disregarded rules of conduct or made himself agitated over them; there was no middle ground. And so, the nerves - when accepting her invitation; when asking how he would know what kind of tuxedo to get and _were_ there different kinds; and when changing into it in the men’s dressing room at work.

The opera was on a Friday, so they decided to go straight from the store and spare themselves the trouble of going home first. Rachel got ready in her office, as she had done many times before. Her only accessories were long pearl earrings and ruched hunter-green evening gloves, and she put her hair up.

It took a few minutes to find Michael, but her hunch that he wouldn’t want to get dressed in his cramped closet-office was correct. She drifted through the empty store with her wrap thrown over her arm, mannequins observing her passage like silent sentinels, and into the fitting room in the second floor men’s department.

“Are you here?” she called out.

“I am,” he replied immediately. “I can’t - how does this getup work?”

“Do you need help?”

“No,” he said, appalled. “God no. Do not come in here.”

He emerged a few minutes later with his bowtie undone but otherwise looking wonderful. By some miracle the tuxedo fit him perfectly. His curls were looser than usual, and though she suspected that was the result of anxious fiddling rather than a deliberate choice it was still a nice effect. Terribly touchable.

“Michael,” she said with undisguised delight. “You look so handsome.”

He covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god.”

“Don’t be bashful,” she said. “Tonight is for peacocking.”

“Fine feathers,” he muttered, peeking at her through his fingers. He dropped his hand to his side and cleared his throat. “Is it inappropriate if I say that is _some_ dress?”

“You’d better,” she said, and stepped in to tie his bowtie for him. “I’m assuming you don’t know how to do this.”

“Never had to before.”

“We could leave it,’ she said, slyly. “It’s very louche.”

He attempted a no-nonsense look but it was ruined because he kept smiling. “The perfume’s good too,” he said, “along with the dress.”

It was only her usual Miss Dior, but she accepted the compliment. “Aren’t you full of praise today?”

“Only because it’s well deserved,” he said.

Rachel gave the bowtie a final tug. She had to admit she was impressed. Correctly attired, shined shoes, outright flirting with her - he was more in his element than she would have expected him to be. Perhaps he’d decided to have some fun with it. “I think that’s about right.”

“So I guess we aren’t taking the subway this time.”

He offered her his arm, almost like a joke, but she took it. “I called a cab, it should be out front now.”

It was a gorgeous, crisp evening. Made to order. Rachel breathed it in, nearly sorry that she would be spending it indoors. She loved the city - _her_ city - better at this time than any other. It was a night for living in the moment.

“You’d better explain opera to me,” Michael said when they were safely ensconced in the back seat, lights whirring past outside. “Before we get there and I figure out how to be an embarrassment.”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “I want you to be surprised.”

 

 

 

He liked the old but elegant building, the rows of shining cars pulling up out front and the crowd. She watched him look from face to face, taking in the dresses and furs and jewels. There was a pair of elderly gentlemen ahead of them, both wearing brocade waistcoats. One of them had a top hat on.

“People are really putting on the ritz,” he said.

She squeezed his arm. “All part of the show. We should get a glass of champagne before everything begins.”

They stopped off at the bar after he checked his coat. There was a line, as there always was, but it moved quickly. The bartenders were factory-efficient.

“I’ve passed by this place before,” he said, after they received their glasses. “But it didn’t occur to me that I might see inside, someday.”

“Why not?” she asked. “There are so many rich experiences in New York, I’d be sad to miss them. We’re very lucky.”

“It’s a city with culture,” he said. “I don’t deny that. But culture isn’t for everyone. It’s not accessible, I’m trying to say.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows at him. “Politics before opera? You don’t have to be wealthy to love music.”

“Yeah, you can go buy a record of this same stuff,” he said, “if that’s what you’re into. But to get in here? It’s not so easy. Not everyone has a friend with season tickets.”

She had always thought of art as an egalitarian force. No one owned it, or could keep it from anyone else. And talent couldn’t be bought - it just was. Still, he wasn’t wrong. “You have a point,” she admitted. “Though I would remind you that the artist-patron relationship is nothing new. Money has always been involved.”

“Huh,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s never what I expect,” he said, “the way you react.”

“How so?” she asked. Not offended, just curious.

“You don’t have to work very hard to understand me,” he said.

Rachel set her empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter, and Michael did the same. “Can I say something?” She slipped her arm through his and indicated that he should follow her. Their proximity gave her an excuse to speak quietly, intimately. “You’re allowed to enjoy yourself without feeling guilty,” she said as they took a turn around the floor. “You aren’t taking anything away from someone else if you do. It’s okay to relax.”

Michael pulled back and looked at her. “You - see, see what I mean?” He laughed a little and shook his head. “You don’t have to work hard.”

“Maybe I’m _choosing_ to work hard,” she said.

“You think it’s a choice?” he asked. “Understanding?”

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “Most everything is, even if people don’t realize it.” The crowd was starting to thin out, the excited pre-show murmur fading. “We should go in and find our seats.”

“I don’t speak any italian,” he said. “That gonna be a problem?”

“Let your ears bypass your brain,” she advised. “It isn’t about the words, it’s about the emotion. You’ll see.”

 

 

 

Rachel went to the ladies room during the intermission while Michael waited in the considerable lineup for another glass of champagne. “Drinks at intermission are a must,” she told him. “Some people even order meals ahead of time.”

She wasn’t sure what he thought of it all. At first he had tried to follow along with the programme, but stopped when she suggested he direct his attention to the stage instead. He had been very subdued - no questions or asides.

“Rachel Menken?” someone asked just as she was powdering her nose at the sink.

“It is you,” Sabrina Pallis said, gliding into view. She had her hair dyed dark blonde, but her brows were still black and dramatically arched. Her dress was a sheath of white sequins that glittered as she moved. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Holed up in your office?”

“Something like that,” said Rachel, carefully. She didn’t dislike Sabrina, but the woman was an incurable gossip. It wouldn’t do to give her too much information. “You?”

“Oh, came back from the Isles a week ago,” she said. “Visiting the family, you know.”

Sabrina was an ambassador's daughter on her father’s side and the heir to a huge shipping company on her mother’s. She seemed to do nothing but travel to sun-soaked places and lived a life of leisure that Rachel could only envy.

“Sounds lovely,” Rachel said, washing her hands. “I hope the weather was good. Is Ambrose here with you?”

“Of course,” she said. “He’d never miss a chance to see _La Traviata_. We all know who the opera fiend is in this marriage. Wait a minute and we’ll go catch up.”

Rachel was a little annoyed; she had wanted to discuss the show with Michael, not make small-talk with acquaintances. Still, she waited. It would have been rude not to.

Sabrina collected her husband and they found Michael waiting by the bar. He gave Rachel her glass and also a quizzical glance. “Michael, this is Sabrina and Ambrose Pallis,” she said without further ado, and then turned back to Sabrina. “Michael Ginsberg is my escort for the evening.”

“Charmed,” said Sabrina, taking Michael’s hand. Rachel could see her sizing him up. “Are you a Verdi fan, Michael?”

His eyes flicked towards Rachel. “Verdi?”

“He composed the opera,” Rachel explained. She aimed a sharp look in Sabrina’s direction.

“Oh, I dunno,” said Michael, casually. “I’ve never been before. Rachel was nice enough to invite me. She’s the expert.” He gave her a broad, admiring smile. “You two go often?”

“Now and then,” said Sabrina. “When we’re in the city.” She gestured around her with her cocktail. “I’m afraid we’re in the same boat, Michael. Ambrose is the artistic soul; I find it all terribly boring. The things we do for a little affection, right?”

She was angling for information, trying to ferret out the specifications of Rachel and Michael’s relationship. He didn’t take the bait. “I wouldn’t call it boring,” he said. “I’m still deciding what I think.” He tapped the side of his head. “It’s percolating.”

“An intellectual,” Sabrina said. “And here I thought I had found a kindred spirit.”

“If I am the artistic soul,” said Ambrose, “then as you can see it is my wife who has a flair for the _dramatic_.” Rachel remembered why she liked him.

Everyone laughed and the moment passed. When Ambrose returned to the bar to request a club soda he took Michael with him. As soon as the men were gone Sabrina slipped into conspirator mode. “He’s adorable,” she said. “An absolute little doll. Wherever did you find him?”

For god’s sake, what a thing to say. “On a shelf at the store,” Rachel said.

“You handled them well,” she told Michael once they were heading back to their seats. He could be so sharp. It made her proud.

“I can take care of myself,” he said, with a shrewd grin. “I did work in advertising.”

The lights dimmed and the music rose. He was quiet once more, except once, at the very end. Onstage Violetta was dying and sang beautifully to bid her lover goodbye. “Oh,” Michael breathed out, “oh, that poor girl,” and in the dark Rachel smiled.

 

 

 

Ambrose and Sabrina extended a dinner invitation post-show. Rachel politely declined, stating that they had other plans.

“Do we?” Michael asked. They were standing outside the theater. He’d gotten their outerwear back from the coatroom, and was in the process of dropping her wrap over her shoulders.

“No,” said Rachel. “I didn’t want to go so I made up an excuse. Would you have liked to get dinner with them?”

“Nope,” he said. “They aren’t too bad, but I didn’t come here to spend time with Mister and Missus Onassis.”

Rachel looked up at the clear fall sky. There had been a sparse rainshower while they were inside, but it had worn itself out by the time they made their exit. A few silver wisps of clouds hung across the moon. In the street below the leaves on the trees were only beginning to turn, yellow around the edges and green in the center. It gave her the urge to go for a stroll through the park, though of course she couldn’t at night. “A walk,” she said. “That’s what I want.”

“Then that’s what you’ll get,” he said, and she beamed at him before taking his arm.

“You’re getting awfully good at this,” she said.

“Soon I’ll be unrecognizable.”

“I certainly hope not.”

 _That_ made him damn near glow with satisfaction and she forced herself to tear her eyes away. He really did look well in a tuxedo. “Admit it,” she said. “You’re glad you came out tonight.”

“I always am when I do something with you,” he said. “We could go to the city dump and I’d have no regrets.”

“That is an exaggeration,” she said. “But it’s a complimentary one, so I’ll allow it.”

“Are they all that tragic?” he asked. Honking cars passed by them on the road. They kept to the inside of the sidewalk to avoid being splashed by the puddles. Soon the fresh rain-smell would fade, but for the time being Rachel could ease into it. The champagne helped, as did the warmth of Michael along her side.

“Operas?” she asked. “Most, I would say. Or the famous ones. But yes, there are comedic operas. The precursors to musicals, I would assume.”

“Like _Singing in the Rain_ ,” he said. “Maybe I should be swinging an umbrella around.”

“That’s one of my favorite movies,” Rachel said, and smiled when he looked at her. “What? Did you think I watched only existential French art films?”

“I had my money on sad melodramas,” he teased. “Like all the ones Joan Fontaine was in. Big dresses and longing, with a side of scarlet fever. Which you would then pretend you never heard of.”

“If we’re talking Fontaine then I prefer the Hitchcock,” she sniffed.

“The lady doth protest too much,” he said. “I think I’m onto something.”

A young couple came their way, pushing a baby carriage in front of them. The carriage was occupied by a fat infant in a yellow coat who was determinedly attempting to pull off her socks. The parents were very put together; likely they were picking their child up from a babysitter, given the late hour.

Michael put his hand on her back and steered her out of the way. They stood together off to the side, under the awning of a closed storefront. There were a few drops of water falling from it and one landed on the nape of Rachel’s neck; Michael cupped his hand over the area to keep her from getting wet. He left his fingers there, lingering on her skin.

In the end it wasn’t anything dramatic that made her kiss him. Not the venue, not the drinking she had been doing. It was proximity, or chemistry, or something she couldn’t define the way she wanted to. There was nothing rational about it. Lizard brained stupidity.

She kissed him hot and fast, with both hands grasping his lapels. A second later she reeled backwards with her face in her hands.

“What,” he gasped, “what did -”

“Oh god,” she said, miserably. “That was a bad idea. I’m so sorry, Michael.”

He leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed. His chest was still heaving. “Right.”

Rachel flinched. “Is that all you have to say?”

He opened his eyes again and shoved off from the wall. “Rachel,” he asked, looking out at the road, away from her, “what do you _want_ me to say? Do you want me to pretend I don’t have feelings for you?”

“No,” she said. “But - Michael, you’re my employee. I can’t.”

“I know,” he said, sounding tired rather than angry. They stood wrapped in a heavy silence, unable to either move away from or towards each other. “Can you get a cab from here?” he asked finally.

We could share it, she wanted to say. But that was delaying the inevitable. “Yes,” she said. “This is a safe neighborhood. I won’t wait long.”

“Then do that,” he said. “Call a taxi, go on home.”

“And you?”

“I won’t be the first guy to be dressed funny on the subway,” Michael said. He seemed to be steeling himself up to say something more; but he stopped, deflated, as some internal mechanism prevented him. Instead he kissed her cheek, very chaste and very brief, and left.

She didn’t allow herself to watch him go. It wouldn’t have done her any good.

 

 

 

September of that year departed amidst music and rain but October made its debut to the sound of war drums. Even before anything happened Rachel felt odd. She could taste ash in the air. But like everyone else she was retroactively imposing a narrative where none existed; how could any of them have known?

She and Michael weren’t speaking, except for when they did. Politely, passing by each other in the store, like they were complete strangers. They were both trying. Both putting in an effort to act like adults. It made her skin itch like she had the chicken pox.

“So how have you been?” she asked, awkward as all hell, after he stepped into the same elevator as her.

He kept rearranging the stack of papers he was carrying. “I’ve been alright. You?”

“Oh, good,” she said, dimly aware that she was starting to sweat. She wished that she had something to do with her hands. “I’ve been good.”

“That’s nice,” Michael said. He looked every bit as desperate as she was, and she wanted to tell him to stop it, that they could talk to each other like human beings again, and that she missed him a great deal.

None of which she followed through on. No, she took the coward's way out and tried to flee from him the second the doors opened. She was halfway down the hall when he spoke.

Michael had his hand on the doorjamb to keep them from closing on him. “Rachel?”

She pushed down her panic. “Yes?”

“I just,” he grimaced, started over. “I just wanted to say I hope you have a great day.”

With that he stepped back and the doors slid shut in front of his face. Rachel had never even managed to work up a response. She went back to her office and sulked.

And then: October 22, 1962. Kennedy addressed the nation, and the next day Rachel sat alone at her desk in her empty store. She had come in only to close the place down. There was no reason for them to be open. There was potentially no reason for anything at all, really, and she thought about that and felt sick.

She had worked so hard, and put so much aside so that she could build a business that could be passed on to her family someday. It was supposed to be security. Now she might not ever have one; now it might be over, not only for her but for all of them - everyone, everywhere. It was hard to get her mind around the idea of that kind of destruction.

People were scrambling to get out of the city. The radio said that the roads and bridges were completely clogged. As though hiding would make any difference at all.

Rachel stood but found she was lightheaded. She leaned against the edge of her desk and tried to breathe.

A drink might help, she decided, as much as something could. Yet she lost track of what she was doing in the middle of the task; standing with the snifter in one hand and a glass in the other, entirely blank.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hallway roused her. She turned sharply towards them.

Michael stood framed by the doorway. “Thank god,” he said. “You’re still here. I called your apartment and nobody picked up.”

“I thought you were gone,” Rachel said. “I thought that everyone was.”

“I am,” he said. “I mean I will. But I had - I needed to see if you were okay. Are you?”

“No,” she said, and had the strangest impulse to laugh. “No, I’m not.”

“No one is,” he said. “Jesus Christ, everyone is terrified. You don’t have to be strong for this.”

The glass and the bottle slipped from her nerveless fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud. Rachel didn’t hear the impact. She was feeling the weight of what she wanted and had denied herself, every second of it.

“Get in here,” she said. “For god’s sake, come _here_ -”

Inexplicable, that at a time like this she could feel desire. And not mildly; as an intense burning need that made her hands stutter over over the buttons of his shirtfront. If the world was about to go up in flames she might as well go with it.

She got it part of the way off him, enough to get her mouth on his collarbones and the pulse in his throat. He kissed her hair and tugged at the bottom of her blouse until it came free from her skirt. Impatiently she yanked it over her head.

“God,” he said, stopping to stare. “You -”

She fumbled at the back of her bra, trying to get it undone. It was plain white cotton and entirely unsuitable for the occasion but she didn’t give a shit. “Michael, _help_.”

He managed to get the hooks open and she let it drop to the ground. She felt rather than heard him breathe in, a soft exhalation, _oh_. With the tips of his fingers he traced a delicate line down to the bottom of her ribs and bent his head to kiss between her breasts, like the period at the end of a sentence.

Rachel pulled him back up by his shirt collar. “The way you look at me,’ she said, past forming complete thoughts. He sighed as she kissed him with her hands cupping his face and said _please, Rachel, please_ ; there was nothing to do after that except push him to the floor and have her way with him. Because he was young and beautiful, and for the moment he was all hers.

She straddled his hips, hiked her skirt up and rubbed herself against him with her lower lip caught between her teeth. They panted together, harshly; she was wet and he was hard. And _ah_ , it felt so good. But not good enough. His hands gripped her hips.

“Here,” she said, an instruction or a plea. She ripped at her pantyhose until they tore.

“Fuck,” Michael said against her mouth. He undid his belt and tried to get out of his pants, but had to settle for sliding them down to his thighs. Mostly because Rachel refused to move.

He let go of her to dig his fingernails into the carpet when she reached into the fly of his boxers and pulled him out. “Hold still,” she said, and gave his cock a firm squeeze.

“Why - oh, _oh_.” This because she hooked her fingers into the crotch of her underwear and stretched it to the side -

(shivering all the way at the sensation of air on bare slick skin)

\- because she was sinking down him slow and easy. He pressed his face against her chest, saying her name in an almost panicked way - Rachel, _Rachel_ \- and lifted his hips to meet her.

She leaned forward with her hair hanging down (and her chest bare and his cock buried deep inside yes _yes_ ) and pressed her mouth to his ear. “Good boy,” she whispered, and he whined and twitched and she gave in to laughter, gave in to everything.

He rolled his hips the first time on instinct but learned from her quickly. How to pace himself, how to thrust into her in smooth measured strokes that made her catch her breath. They fell over onto their sides and he kept going, curling against her, fucking her open until her thighs were slippery and shaking.

“Like that,” she groaned, “exactly like - tha - _uh_.” Rachel kissed him blindly. She rubbed the heel of her hand against herself while he fucked her, pleasure building with the force of an electric shock and she knew she wouldn’t last long, not long at all -

She took one of his hands off her hip and raised it to her lips. Her spine went liquid and she tensed up, cried out, arched her back. When she came it was while holding his fingers in her mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.

He stopped moving suddenly. “Now?” he asked, strained, flushed down to his chest. She realized he had been waiting for her. With great effort she rolled him onto his back.

“You _are_ good,” she said, grinding down. “Look at that. So considerate.”

He cast his forearm over his face. “Let me, please let _me_ -”

She was still feeling the aftershocks, but post-orgasm she was clearer headed. “I could ask you to beg,” she said, thoughtfully. He scrabbled at her, bucking up. “But I won’t.”

Instead Rachel rode him, intense and focused. He made the sweetest noises. She watched his throat work, fascinated, and curved her fingers around it. Careful not to press down or restrict him in any way. Just held him in place.

“Thank you,” he rasped out.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” she said, and watched him come with tears in his eyes.

 

 

 

“I can’t leave my father alone today,” Michael said. “I have to go home.”

They were lying on the floor, on their backs. She had her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, while he ran his fingers up and down her arm.

“I know,” Rachel said. “So do I.” She smiled at him and got up with a wince. “I think I have rug burn.”

He started doing his shirt back up and paused to direct a vague look around the room. “I lost a couple buttons.”

Rachel peeled her mangled pantyhose the rest of the way off and threw them into the garbage under her desk. She opened a drawer and took out a fresh pair. “I’ll tell you if I find them.”

“You have a package of pantyhose in your desk?” he asked, one side of his mouth quirking up. “Who am I kidding, ‘course you do.”

“Former girl scout,” she said, though she never had been. But she thought he would pick up on the joke.

He turned towards her with his hands on his hips. “So,” he said, uncertain. “What now?”

“What now?” Rachel considered the question. She didn’t want to rush into any major decisions, certainly, but more than that she hated the idea of him doing the same. That he could be with her one day and regret what they had become, because terror made him leap before he looked. “We don’t have to decide anything right now.”

Thankfully he didn’t seem hurt. He crossed his arms and let out a long sigh. “When will we?”

“After.”

“After what?”

Rachel shrugged. “Just - _after_.”

“I get it,” he said, “No, I do.” He put his hands in his hair, which was already a mess, and nodded. “I can live with that.”

 

 

 

The world did not end and gradually came back to life. Storefronts opened again. Newspapers kept on being delivered and donut shops sold coffee to the truck drivers at five in the morning. The crowds returned to the city and flooded onto the sidewalks. Rachel Menken went back to work.

Michael wasn’t there the day of the reopening. She was busy catching up from their downtime, but the fact of it stuck in the back of her mind like a thorn. He didn’t come in the next day, either.

“No?” Rachel asked Michael’s officemate - called Danny, as it turned out - on the third day of his absence.

“Um,” said Danny. “He’s still sick? That’s what he said.” Every bit of his body language shrieked about not killing the messenger.

“Hmm,” said Rachel, and left him alone. She went back to her office to ponder the problem. Ten minutes later she was winding her scarf around her neck and heading for the door. She told her secretary that she was taking the afternoon off. She could have called Michael but it didn’t feel right. He had come to her, after all, when she’d needed it. Besides, she suspected he wasn’t at home.

The click of her heels echoed as she walked through the museum. It was exactly as peaceful as she expected it to be, populated only by security guards and the occasional tourist.

There was one person sitting in front of the Cornell, and somehow she had known that would be the case as well. He had his back turned to her and was wearing a new coat. But it was him. She remembered the picture in his office that his friend had taken; a wrinkled white collar, the curve of his cheek barely visible.

Michael looked over as she stepped forward. He started to smile. Incredulous, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“Hello,” she said, her heart pounding. “I was hoping to find you here.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and then maybe they get married someday and have a couple of kids and Rachel doesn't get cancer, not even once.


End file.
